


nights project

by impostures (traveller)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, M/M, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/impostures
Summary: They slept pressed tightly together, like a pair of blades hidden in a carpet; sometimes tucked in a caravanserai’s warm alcove but more often under the stars. The sky was enormous in that part of the world.a series of Joe/Nicky-centered vignettes, prompted by snippets from Yasmine Seale's upcoming translation ofThe 1001 Nights.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 21
Kudos: 59





	1. the road to Samarkand

**Author's Note:**

> [Nights Bot](https://twitter.com/the_small_hours) on twitter provides both the inspiration and the mechanism of this project. Each chapter is a complete, individual vignette; each chapter title is the quote and prompt.   
>    
> [originally posted on tumblr,](https://impostures.tumblr.com/nights) and will always appear there first. 
> 
> with grateful love to M.

The last time they made this specific journey, they’d departed on horse from Qosṭanṭīniyye, switching to camels as they skirted the Khazar Sea. They slept pressed tightly together, like a pair of blades hidden in a carpet; sometimes tucked in a caravanserai’s warm alcove but more often under the stars. The sky was enormous in that part of the world. 

Now they travel through that same sky, just four and a half hours direct from Istanbul to Samarqand. The flight attendant brings Nicky a pot of strong tea, and gives Joe an indulgent smile; Joe, who dropped his seat flat as soon as they were in the air, and who now snores softly into his complimentary pillow. If she can see that Nicky’s right hand is holding Joe’s, she doesn’t comment. 

It still seems miraculous that what once took months on the road can be condensed to a single night’s journey, like Mohammed’s, peace be upon him. Nicky squeezes Joe’s hand, and sees Joe’s lips curve in his sleep. 

He sips his tea, and watches the stars. 


	2. he knew about the properties of plants and herbs, the harmful and the healthy, and he knew philosophy

It seemed unfair—no, more than that, _unjust—_ that his companion should be learned as well. That this al-Kaysani should be skilled in battle, all right. Many men were skilled in battle. That he should be handsome and well-made, all right. This was true of fewer, but enough not to cause remark. But to have both these gifts _and_ such a mind! All at once! 

Nicolò had spent hours and days in prayer since the revelation of their shared condition, trying to divine a reason for it, looking for some sign that would make sense of it all. The key that would turn all the tumblers properly, and open the door to understanding _why_. Why him, why... _him._ Why them, together, and why, a little more every day, did the sight of this man cause Nicolò’s heart to spark with something that was not rage, but burned every bit as hot. 

Across from him al-Kaysani continued to write in his codex, sketching perhaps, carefully balancing a small inkpot on one knee. He glanced up, as if sensing Nicolò’s gaze, and offered a crooked smile. 


	3. guessed at his unease and tried to soothe him

Time seemed to be their one resource which never spent. Ten deaths, twenty, forty. A hundred. Day upon day. Yusuf stopped counting the deaths, and tried to lose track of the days. It was difficult to forget, when time told its story upon the world even if it no longer marked its passage on their bodies. 

A pair of olive cuttings, budded and planted in this place with Yusuf’s own hands; now a pair of sturdy trees, heavy with fruit. Three years, he said to the man from next door, whose beard had silvered in Yusuf’s absence. Three years and already mature? Oh no, the man said, seven years since you were here! This will be the second full harvest. 

The man frowned, and pointed toward the horizon. And four years since you were given up for dead, and your wife returned to her father’s house.

Yusuf nodded. You’re welcome to the olives, he said. Peace be upon you. 

He turned away, and Nicolò followed without a word. 

Later, when they’d walked a good three hours from the town, when Yusuf had prayed, and prayed again _Astaghfirullah_ , times ten, twenty, forty, but not yet a hundred, Nicolò spoke.

It’s all right, he said, and in the past three, four, seven years Yusuf’s language had come to sound almost natural in Nicolò’s mouth. It’s not as if you could have known, setting out for Jerusalem so long ago... He put his hand on Yusuf’s arm, and gently squeezed, offering the wrong absolution. 

No, my friend, Yusuf said, and he took Nicolò’s hand and pressed it to his breast. I do not ask pardon for leaving, or for staying away. Nor for my rudeness to my former neighbor, nor for making you come all this way only to turn and walk back in the same direction... 

What then? Nicolò asked, his eyes bright. 

I am sorry, Yusuf said, not because I feel guilt for leaving, but _because I feel glad that I left._


	4. eyes shut, breathing deeply

This time, this rich indigo hour when the air grows heavy with dew not yet fallen, when Nicky wakes and sits up, trembling with hunger. This may be his favorite time. Watching Joe sleep: his lips parted, one arm flung out, palm up, fingers curled. It’s only when he is most untroubled that Joe does this, rolls away from Nicky in the night to lie on his back, open and exposed. 

If Nicky were an enemy he could gut this man in between one breath and the next, and Joe wouldn’t even stir as he died. If Nicky were the enemy he once was. 

He leans down and presses his lips to Joe’s palm. He presses his lips along the tender seam of Joe’s belly, up toward the heart, and feels it beating under his mouth. Feels Joe’s deeper inhale, and the hand stroking up his back to rest on his nape. 

_My love_ , Joe says quietly, and urges Nicky further upward, into a kiss that begins with licks and tastes, and ends with bites and gulps. 

_Let me,_ Nicky says. 

_Anything,_ Joe says. _Anything._


	5. do me a favour: come in and taste my food

The truth of the matter was this: Nicky was well into his eighth century by the time he learned more than the basics of cooking. This wasn’t saying much, really, since to Nicky _the basics_ meant taking great care to ensure that whatever he’d killed for dinner was burnt to a cinder. 

“Try the sauce, beloved?” Nicky asks, holding out a spoon with something chunky and red on it. Joe, coming into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and maybe some of those pistachio cookies he had stashed away, opens his mouth to spit out an excuse why he cannot. Nicky, apparently taking this for consent, bumps the spoon against Joe’s lips.

He tastes. He swallows. He tries, and fails, not to wince. 

Nicky nods in sympathy. “Needs more sugar, no?” 

Somehow, his husband had found the worst cook in all of France to teach him—the landlady at the place in Le Havre where they’d stayed for several months while Andy worked on convincing Booker to leave Paris. Used to boarding dockworkers and sailors who’d eat anything that wasn’t actively fighting back, Mme. Gregoire had a repertoire of tasteless soups, mealy breads, and charred roasts which she was _enchanted_ to impart to _cher Nicolás._

Nicky had spent the next hundred and sixty-odd years laughing off any critique of his cooking as absurd. I learned in France! he’d say, his smile bright and guileless, and Joe’s chest would ache with the twin pangs of love and indigestion.

“No,” Joe says, the sweet-sick taste of the tomato sauce still coating his tongue. “Garlic, and salt.” 

“You think everything needs garlic and salt,” Nicky says, smacking a fond kiss onto Joe’s mouth. 

That’s because it _does_ , Joe thinks, and kisses Nicky back with intent. If he can distract him long enough that the sauce burns, they can order in tonight.


	6. translate this ache

They had been in each other’s company for eleven years then, travelling east and west and sometimes north, but never toward Nicolò’s old home, never to the sparkling bluegreen harbor that he still sometimes dreamt of. Messina, once, was as close as he could bring himself; Messina, so like Genova and so utterly foreign at the same time. 

His counterpart, his companion, had become a steadfast friend. They had walked together, he and Yusuf, to the place where Yusuf had once lived, and found things much changed from his memories. Yusuf spoke of his relief—and his guilt at his relief—that his home had moved on without him, and seemed to find solace in the confession. But Nicolò suspected that it troubled his friend more than he let on. 

To return home and find it was yours no longer, what pain! Why would Nicolò choose it for himself? He would have spared Yusuf that pain, had he known. In the years since, whenever he wondered, whenever he longed for his city, for the tastes and smells and voices left behind, he repeated his vow to himself. _I cannot return home, I have no home._

So they walked from place to place, sometimes hiring out their swords, sometimes offering Yusuf’s skills as a scribe. Nicolò had learned to read and then to write in Yusuf’s language, and then in his own, but he thought it would never come to him as easily as it did to his friend. He was surprised, and pleased, to find he had a facility for healing. He learned all that Yusuf knew, and thereafter found such men and women as would teach him, in all the places they went. No matter that such a skill was no longer useful to either of them; they were only two, and even if the women they sometimes dreamed of shared their condition, well. There was still a wide world full of hurt and sickness, and if Nicolò could ease any of that pain, it would be some small measure in the balance against the harm he had himself once caused. 

They were camped one night near the coast again, and Yusuf mentioned, as they sat side-by-side near the fire, that sooner or later they were sure to happen upon a port. A boat in a small port could take them to a great one, and a great port would have Genovan ships, he said. Yusuf meant nothing but kindness, Nicolò knew, and yet he felt wounded at the suggestion. 

I cannot return home, he said, out loud for the first time. Yusuf smiled at him, and shook his head. 

Of course you can, he said. I only wonder that you have not gone sooner. 

An answer caught in Nicolò’s throat as Yusuf continued: 

You have no need of me anymore, my friend. Perhaps it is God’s will that we are bound together by our condition, but perhaps we are meant to separate, to go into the world each alone. For all the good we may do together, could we perhaps do more were we apart? If you and I meet ten people together, that is good, but perhaps if I meet ten and you meet ten, then we have done twice the—

I do not _want_ to return home, Nicolò said, and he put both his hands on Yusuf’s for a moment before pulling them back in shock. Yusuf stared, and the fire crackled. A breeze heavy with salt swept Nicolò’s hair first into his face, and then away. 

I do not want to return home, he repeated, low this time. I thought… I thought could not bear to see that it had forgotten me, I thought to spare myself the hurt, but I see now. _I see now._

What do you see? Yusuf said, and Nicolò placed his hands on Yusuf’s again. 

The pain I feared could not be caused by anything I left behind there, or any changes time had wrought. How could I leave you? I need you more than ever, you fool, how could I—?

Yusuf leaned forward, and stopped his words with a kiss. 


	7. kunafa in a buttered honey bath

The name painted on the glass under the red and gold awning is _Café Nablus._ A galaxy of tables and chairs swirls outside: five students crowd elbow-to-elbow at one overflowing with chatter and cups; a man in a suit reads alone at another, taking sips of his tea with movements as precise as the folds in his newspaper, and the creases in his trousers. Nicky and Joe claim a spot close to the street but still in the shade, with a clear view of the foot traffic in each direction, and an open exit path to the alley. 

Old habits, as they say. 

“I’m starving,” Joe says and kicks Nicky, most likely on purpose but possibly by accident. 

“It wasn’t _me_ who didn’t want to leave the house this morning,” Nicky points out, and Joe snorts a laugh. 

“No? You didn’t want to leave the house once I had my—hello!” Joe beams up at the server, who is nearly blown out of her sensible clogs from the force of his smile. 

“Good afternoon,” she says after a moment’s recovery. “Would you like a menu?” 

Nicky is sympathetic. The first time he had the full power of Joe’s happiness aimed at him, he’d thought that his heart would stop—and having at that point actually felt his heart stop more than once, it wasn’t an idle comparison. 

“Thank you, no, a pot of tea to share and and two… ehhh, better make it four. Slices of your _kanafeh_ , please.” Joe smiles up at her again, and she blushes all the way down her throat 

Nicky covers his laugh with his palm as the girl walks away, and Joe shakes his head at him, gives his ankle another kick. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Nicky says. “Nothing at all.” He takes Joe’s hand under the table and sits back in his chair, and lets the sounds of the city wash warmly over him. 


	8. velvet cheeks

It is midnight again, this night in a city on a river, in a house near a church that rings out each hour with an ancient bell. The bedroom doors are open onto the balcony, and the flowers in the courtyard are wet and heavy with dew, scents rising on the humid air. 

Joe stretches out in the middle of their disheveled bed, his back to the balcony, his arm on the pillows and his head pillowed on his arm, and watches Nicky in the shower. All day they have been making love and dozing in the heat, settling into the gift of time alone: reward for their work, and also respite from it. 

In the bathroom’s low light Nicky’s body is pale gold behind the steamed-over glass, the top of his head sleek and dark just above the frame. The water stops after a while, and Nicky steps out of the enclosure, swinging the door closed behind him with a careless thunk. He sees Joe watching, and smiles. 

“Better?” Joe asks, and Nicky saunters toward him, hot droplets still chasing each other over the planes of his chest, the cut of his hips, the long muscles of his thighs. 

Nicky leans down, as if to give his lover a kiss, then shakes his head at the last second, sending water flying from his hair into Joe’s face. Joe laughs even as he sputters, and captures Nicky’s chin in his hand to pull him forward and claim the payment owed. 

Some time later, Nicky draws back with a nip to Joe’s jaw. 

“Better,” he says, and stands again. “You can wash up while I shave, and then we’ll go get some coffee, something to eat.” 

You can come back to bed, Joe thinks, and I’ll give you plenty to eat. Nicky catches his eye with a grin, knowing full well what Joe is thinking, and wags his finger in mock reproach. 

“No, no, my darling. Come on, I want to go out. Please?” 

Impossible to refuse, of course, which is why Nicky does it. Joe drags himself to standing, and stretches until his spine pops. 

In the bathroom, Nicky makes lather in the shaving bowl and hums a song that’s been forgotten for a century.


	9. about love I knew nothing

"Can’t sleep?” she asks, nodding in invitation toward the other chair, at a scarred wooden table in an equally worn stone farmhouse. The house sits halfway up the mountain, above a village that was ancient when Nicky was young. 

He gives Nile a smile, and gestures between them. “Sleepless twins?” he jokes, and feels victorious for a moment when she smiles back.

“Trying to decide if it’s the coffee kind of insomnia, or the vodka kind.” She has her hands folded on the edge of the table in front of her, like maybe she was praying before he walked in, or maybe she was just waiting, waiting for something. 

“No, no,” he says, and waves his hands. “This kind, here.” There is a crate behind the cellar door, and it still holds three bottles of a wine that’s a little less than half Nile’s age. 

He breaks the wax, draws the cork, and stops to breathe it in, the scent bringing to mind tobacco and leather. “Montepulciano,” he says. “From near Siena.” 

“Oh, of course,” Nile says. “Love me a Montepulciano.” 

He adores this girl, so much already. “Here.” He takes down two glasses, and pours them each a generous portion before taking the chair she’d offered. There’s plenty of moonlight to see by. “Salute.” 

“Salute,” she echoes, and tosses the wine back like a shot. Nicky laughs, and covers his mouth too late; they both still and listen. 

The house remains quiet, no stirrings from above. Nicky nods, and tastes his wine. Tobacco and leather and heavy black grapes, bursting with sweetness on his tongue. Other nights, other rooms and other bottles. He closes his eyes, swallows, and thinks of the spot on Joe’s neck where his beard thins out, and the way his pulse there will beat against Nicky’s lips. 

“You’re thinking of him,” Nile says, soft. When Nicky opens his eyes again, she is refilling her glass. 

He shrugs crookedly. “I am always thinking of him. From the day I first saw his face.” 

“And you have the nerve to call _him_ the romantic.” 

Nicky shrugs again, smiling against the rim of his glass. “We are what we are,” he says, and takes another drink. 

“How—?” Nile asks after a while; after a second glass, maybe a third. Nicky tilts his head. 

“Mm?” 

“How did you... You guys didn’t even speak the same language at first, did you?” 

“Not really, no. He figured out enough of mine to teach me his. He’s always been so clever.” Nicky glances out the window, at the moon sinking toward the horizon. “I didn’t know. Anything. I thought what I felt for God was love. I didn’t know, it took weeks to understand that he was not my enemy, it took years to understand that he was more than my friend. I was so stupid, so slow.” 

He looks back to Nile, at her beauty in the silvery light, her dark eyes searching his face. She will have this, he is certain. Someday, with someone as perfect a match for her as Joe is to him. 

“But you got there in the end,” she says, and Nicky runs this fingers down the throat of the wine bottle, thinking of Joe, always, always. 

“I did,” he says. “In the end.”


	10. the strangest and most exciting thing on earth

_How could I leave you? I need you more than ever, you fool, how could I—?_

Yusuf leaned forward, and stopped his words with a kiss.

In the moment as their lips met, Yusuf saw a look of shock on Nicolò’s face and he almost, almost! pulled away. But then his friend’s expression changed to something like greed; his mouth opened roughly against Yusuf’s, and Yusuf closed his eyes. 

Nicolò kissed like a young boy, eager and fumbling and desperately sincere. Their beards scraped and their noses banged, lips were bitten, tongues pressed too far. It was the happiest Yusuf had felt in years, since before he died, since before he could remember. 

Wait, he said, when he needed to catch his breath, and Nicolò laughed and kissed him again, quick and hard. 

Wait! Wait, you say? How can I wait when I am only now realizing how much time I have lost? How many days and nights that I could have been loving you? 

Nicolò pressed his fingers to Yusuf’s lips, and Yusuf kissed them, one two three. 

Wait, Yusuf said again, and took Nicolò’s hand. Let me breathe, let me look at you—

Nicolò laughed again, eyes so bright in the firelight, and Yusuf thought his heart would overflow.


End file.
